


One Night in Brussels

by concernedlily



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Royal life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 09:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/pseuds/concernedlily
Summary: Tilde at work.





	One Night in Brussels

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks futuredescending for reading and talking through with me :D.

“No, Signe, the blue McQueen, please,” Tilde says, leafing through her notes with one hand and applying blusher with the other. A Princess is never truly late; they'll simply wait for her to get there. But in another - more literal - sense she absolutely can be late. And will be, if she doesn't get a move on. 

“I'm sorry, your Highness, I couldn't find the blue McQueen,” Signe says, continuing to proffer a violet dress in a way taking on definite meaning of Tilde’s making her life more difficult than it needs to be. “This dress is the best alternative for the shoes, hair and makeup we planned.”

“Fuck,” Tilde says, even as she's hurrying over and letting Signe help her into the dress then twirl her round and start expertly unwrapping the rollers from her hair. She tries to think back - the McQueen dress is a favourite, if nothing else. 

She'd last worn it to a financial services dinner at the Ritz. It was fabulously engineered, made her arse look great, and when she'd got home she and Eggsy had had fantastic sex on the sofa with it wriggled up to her waist, at least half the reason her memories of it are so fond - and then, yes. Her last image of the dress is flung over Eggsy’s shoulder, in a garment bag with a few of his suits, merrily telling her he'll have the Kingsman drycleaners take care of it. 

Damn. With living in between Eggsy’s house in London, her flat in Brussels, and the palace in Stockholm it’s not the first time this has happened but it doesn't make it any more convenient. 

Signe spins her around again and hands her a lipstick and Tilde looks into the mirror with a critical eye as she applies it. The bronze heels aren't quite as perfect with this dress as they would have been with the blue, but it’ll do. 

“The car?” she says. 

Signe swoops up Tilde’s speech, takes the lipstick, and crams her feet into her own shoes (flats, lucky cow). “Already waiting, your Highness.”

***

“Of course, I know, but the polls…” the Italian finance minister says, vaguely. 

Tilde levels a flat stare at him and watches him wilt. “Just last week there was a pre-election poll that showed that most of all your people want _change_ ,” she says. “Higher taxes are unpopular initially, yes, but set appropriately, including corporation taxes, and with people able to see the results of greater investment in public services -”

“That might work in Sweden,” he says. He goes to make a move that might have been a patronising pat on the bum, but seems to remember it’s 2016 and that she’s a princess and unlike the other unfortunate women around him there might be consequences for grubbily manhandling her, and clears his throat instead, putting his hands behind his back and giving her a patronising nod. “

“Perhaps,” she says, and gives him a humourless smile. “I suppose for you it would be an advance just to get people paying their taxes.”

He scowls for a microsecond, and then the expression is replaced by syrupy sympathy, badly overlaid on lip-trembling glee, like tracing paper on a photograph. “I was sorry to see that article this morning,” he says. “So intrusive! I’m sure a pretty girl like you could get a husband if she wanted one.”

It’s very good champagne, which is about the only redeeming factor in not being able to indulge in real life in her brief fantasy about throwing the glass in his face.

She holds eye contact and slowly draws herself up to her full height, allowing her expression to take on a pleasant, distant hauteur. She is the daughter of a King; and what is he? A power-chasing small-minded fool. Nobody who will be in the history books, or achieve anything at all to deserve to be.

His smile fades as the silence and the frostiness around them grows. “You must have many people to speak to,” she says, a clear dismissal from the royal presence. He flushes, too late becoming embarrassed, and then Signe is there. A quick touch to Tilde’s elbow and Signe is herding him away, a fixed smile on her face. Tilde turns away from her delivering him safely to another conversation. 

Nils steps in, a discreet shield from the room, and Tilde lets herself drain her glass. As usual now when she’s stressed in these circumstances she has to press down a moment of fear for her protection. She’d gone to see Max and Jonathan’s families herself, once released from Valentine’s prison; to them she’d lied about the bloody brutality of their deaths, but she can’t forget it herself.

“What article this morning?” she says curtly, when Signe rejoins her.

Signe’s lips tighten, the only betrayal of her professionalism. She hands Tilde a fresh glass of champagne and says, “Press office dealt with it, your Highness. It’s the usual tabloid rubbish, nothing more. I saw no need -”

“Signe,” she says.

Signe sighs and gets her phone out and a few moments later Tilde is looking at a headline. _Sons for Sweden?_ , it says, and Tilde barely needs to scroll through it to see the standard salacious faux-concern for the future of the Swedish royal line. A thousand words, plus photos of her with past boyfriends, speculating on why Tilde not only hasn’t provided heirs yet, but doesn’t even show any sign of being in a relationship. There’s a distasteful sidebar from some fertility doctor on women in their mid-thirties and their chances of conceiving their own children: that’s new.

It’s bad. But not necessarily any worse than the articles would be about her working-class British boyfriend. Lovely Eggsy, who has welcomed her into his life, shows her off to his family and friends, tells her easily he loves her; but whose job demands discretion and who at 24 shows no sign yet of being ready to settle down.

“I see,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Tilde,” Signe says, quietly. She’s only rarely so informal with Tilde, but it isn’t the time to be indulged.

“In future I need to see all my press,” she says, and Signe nods, her eyes downcast, accepting the point. Tilde wants to put her hand on her shoulder, tell her she appreciates Signe’s attempt to protect her; but protection isn’t what she needs, not from this. “What did the King say?”

“I haven’t heard, your Highness,” Signe says. “But… your mother has suggested some new dates when Eggsy could join you all for dinner.”

Tilde takes a deep breath. Her feet are killing her, and she’s starving: the canapes tonight have been shit. She suddenly wants Eggsy, badly, to be banging into each other in the kitchen as they try to make dinner, both as bad at cooking as each other, laughing and private. 

Just a couple more conversations on the list, and she can leave.

“Let’s look at the diary in the morning,” she says. “Find the British Permanent Representative for me, please.”

***

She settles onto the sofa with a small glass of snaps after supper. It’s already midnight but she’s still winding down, warmly wrapped in a dressing gown, exhausted but restless. Nothing on all of the tv and film services interests her, she can’t focus on the novel she’s reading, it’s too dark and quiet outside to get into anything else. At this kind of time in London JB would scrabble up onto the sofa with her, despite Eggsy’s half-hearted efforts to instill some discipline into him, and his warm little weight and snuffles against her hip would soothe her. 

She startles when her phone rings. 

“Hello, Mamma,” she says. “It’s late!”

“I know, my dear,” Mamma says. “How was the Serres Royales?”

“Lovely as ever,” Tilde says. “The conversation, though…”

“As ever,” her mother says. “Your father and I are grateful, Tilde.”

“Don’t be silly,” Tilde says. “I’m glad to do my part, Mamma, you know that.”

“Of course. Just…”

Tilde stops herself from letting out the sigh right into the mouthpiece. “Yes, Mamma?”

“We represent our people,” Mamma says gently. “It doesn’t do to get too… political.”

“Yes, Mamma,” Tilde says, dutifully. It’s such an old conversation there’s barely any frustration anymore, although perhaps a little more on a late night, after four glasses of champagne. Her parents are happy to be figureheads, retire to the palace after a long evening and shake their heads over the state of the world, but Tilde is keenly aware that with several of the old royal lines of Europe fallen after V-day their work should be more rather than less. She still might not be able to influence much publicly, but if the cachet of royalty can have an effect on just some of the people she talks to then she might actually be doing something with her life other than smiling and waving. Maybe she’ll start collecting headlines for where she’s changed the world without anyone ever knowing, like Eggsy’s beloved mentor.

The conversation turns to the prattling and easy: Tilde’s cousins and the latest bit of the palace to have fallen down and how cross Pappa is to have been put on a healthy diet by his doctor. By the time it’s done Tilde is sleepy, actually so sleepy she’s passed the point where she really feels like getting off the sofa to put herself to bed.

There’s a text on her phone; she must have missed the alert while she was talking to her mother. It’s either a dick pic or Eggsy ready for bed, and either possibility already has her smiling.

_Nice to have someone to keep the bed warm_ Eggsy has texted, and she laughs at the picture of Eggsy pretending to sleep next to JB curled up on his pillow.

_Wish I was there_ she types out. It’s not entirely true. _Wish you were here_ would do just as well.

_Good do?_ he texts.

Okay she says.

And then - before she can think better of it - _do you want to have dinner with my parents soon?_

*** END ***


End file.
